


Catching Hell

by V_vulpes



Category: Leverage
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mind Rape, Prequel, Psychic AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6716263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_vulpes/pseuds/V_vulpes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot Spencer was a living legend. And you don’t turn down an opportunity to meet a legend, no matter who's holding their leash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laughsalot3412](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laughsalot3412/gifts).



> This is a prequel to [Laughsalot3412](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laughsalot3412)'s [Psychic AU](http://archiveofourown.org/series/431476), which is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Expect a similar level of trauma and consent issues, plus more cursing.

Internal security wasn’t exactly Quinn’s expertise. It wasn’t even in the top five of his preferred jobs. He’d rather be busting heads or chasing down some unlucky sap on someone’s shit list. Hell, a cleanup job was preferable. At least then you got to _do_ something. Instead, he’d be standing around in a suit listening to self-important bigwigs pat themselves on the back and hoping to God the building would catch fire. Not exactly a memorable evening.

Still, Quinn had taken the job. He needed the money. At least, that’s what he’d say if he was ever asked. (He wouldn’t be, turns out it’s hard to keep friends when you’ve shot most of the people you know.) The lie would hold up: Damien Moreau liked parties. He liked being the center of attention, and he liked having the best and the most. Damien Moreau was also the target of half a dozen assassination attempts last year. So when he threw parties, security was as well-financed as the catering. So no one would doubt that the gig paid well.

But a sizeable amount of Quinn’s decision to take this particular job had been weighted on the fact that Damien Moreau had Eliot Spencer on his personal security team.

Eliot Spencer was a living legend. And you don’t turn down an opportunity to meet a legend.  Especially when the only other chance Quinn would likely get was looking down the barrel of a gun. If Quinn was lucky, he’d be the one holding it.

So Quinn took the job. Also, he needed the money.

 

Day of, Quinn positioned himself near the open bar, adopting an unobtrusive security stance. In his experience, if there was going to be a scuffle, it’d probably be near the bar. And after listening to the unrelenting talk of mergers and trade of dubious legitimacy, Quinn was really hoping for a scuffle. The night had progressed from private negotiations into the rich people equivalent of socialization—mainly bragging. He should be getting a bonus for keeping the eye-rolling to a minimum.

At least no one was going to give him shit for skimming thoughts from the guests. Quinn figured that was why he’d gotten the job in the first place—Psychic security in these circles was essential. It’s hard to follow-through on an assassination plot or a double-cross if you can’t _think_ about it. He wasn’t complaining, he’d probably gotten the job due to his mildly useless telepathy.

Even though all he’d probably catch a glimpse of is liquor-fueled desperation for a restroom and which of the waitstaff hadn’t washed their hands. Helpful when you wanted to avoid _E. coli_ , but annoying when people kept breaking into your thoughts to remind you of the fullness of their bladder. Basically the same routine as an evening in a dive bar, but with less fighting and more condescension.

Quinn took in the people at the bar. A man swirling a glass of bourbon and droning on about his expensive racehorses was sweating about insurance policies just under the surface. The woman he had cornered—red dress, dirty martini—was doing the mental equivalent of rolling her eyes.

Her eyes slid to Quinn like she’d sensed his gaze—and maybe she had: in this crowd anybody could be psychic. She looked him over (Bourbon didn’t notice, still talking) and a more positive stream of thoughts floated his way.  He grinned.

“I don’t believe we’re paying you to flirt.”

Quinn reluctantly took his eyes from Dirty Martini and found himself faced with the snooty English guy from the briefing earlier that day. Quinn hated him already. Not only was he a pain in the ass, his mind was locked down like fucking Fort Knox. From his expression, he didn’t seem angry. Amused, maybe. Smug, definitely.

“Of course, you were hardly listening to the schedule, so I imagine you may have gotten lost somewhere between ‘security’ and ‘detail’.” English continued, “And, yes, I’ll get my _panties out of a knot_ once I’m sure you’re actually doing what you were hired for.”

Right. Psychics. Deliberately and in detail, Quinn thought about punching English in the face.

“Very mature, Mr. Quinn.” English sighed, longsuffering. “And I’m not _English_ , you idiot.”

Quinn shrugged.

“Remind me why we hired you?”

“Limited applicant pool?” Quinn suggested with a smile. “Most of you psychic-types are delicate little flowers. Hard to imagine how you’d far in an actual fight.”

English cringed. “Fantastic. Another bloody cowboy.”

Quinn didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. “Look, either get out of my face and let me work. Or fire me, and I can go chat with Dirty Martini over there.”

He glanced over at the bar. Damn, she’d left. Bourbon was looking forlornly into his bourbon, mind flickering with distaste over melting ice cubes. People were mostly boring.

English might have retorted. But Quinn had stopped paying attention to him. Eliot Spencer was leaning on the bar, drumming his fingers and waiting for the bartender to turn in his direction. There was this haze of noise, like a radio turned down low, pulsing around Spencer.

Spencer wasn’t psychic. That much Quinn knew. There had been rumors, because no man should be able to do what he does. But everyone’s born with different talents, and Eliot Spencer was damn talented, just not with psychic abilities. So If Quinn wanted, he could turn volume up, peer inside.

But eavesdropping was rude, and _damn it all_ Quinn wanted to make a good impression. And shit, _shit_ , what if he listened in and Spencer thought he was a hack? Quinn didn’t like caring about what people thought. Usually he didn’t, courtesy of already knowing.

A streak of fire sliced through his head, like the world’s worst and fastest migraine. Quinn’s fingers had barely reached his temple before it was over.

“Now that I’ve got your attention.” English purred, “Try not to ogle any more of the guests.” He made a face, glancing between Quinn and the bar. “Or the _help_ , for god’s sake man.”

Quinn wasn’t easily shamed. But when Eliot Spencer looked over at the sound of English’s voice, a shot of something amber at his lips, Quinn was probably embarrassed. At least, if embarrassment felt like wanting a second take at the last five minutes, then yes. He was incredibly embarrassed.

God, Quinn hoped he didn’t get fired in front of Eliot goddamn Spencer. Maybe he could kill English in the next twenty seconds before—nope. Spencer was on his way over.

“Is this guy giving you trouble?”

Spencer’s voice was work boots on gravel, his expression granite. If Quinn wasn’t a man hardened by gunpowder and bloodied knuckles, he might have been afraid of that expression. Of course, he might have been distracted by blue eyes and lips that— _shit_ _stop that_. Quinn shut that down before it got out of hand.

English opened his mouth to speak, but Spencer cut him off.

“Shut up, Chapman, I ain’t talking to you.”

Just like that, Quinn liked him even more.

 ~~English~~ _Chapman_ glowered at Spencer, unamused. “Watch your tone, Spencer.”

But Eliot Spencer was still looking at Quinn, waiting for an answer. The noise was there, pervasive and buzzing, and Quinn was tempted to reach out and listen, just for a second. Instead, he shrugged.

“I’m not here to pick a fight.” Quinn said. It was only half true. He was supposed to be monitoring the evening’s events to keep a lid on unruly guests or the odd homicide attempt. But _preventing_ trouble wasn’t really his forte.

Spencer’s eyes lit up at the sound of Quinn’s voice, a smile spreading slow across his face. “Long way from home, aren’t you, boy?”

Chapman made a sound of disgust. “Well, isn’t that just predictable.”

“If I hear your voice again, Chapman, I’m gonna punch you in the neck.” Spencer said, more of a promise than a threat.

“Go on,” Chapman said, sultry, “I’d like to see you try.”

Despite that, Chapman gave them a final smirk and strode off into the crowd. And Quinn was alone with the man who’d decimated the Spetznaz, outsmarted the Yakuza, the—

“You want a drink?”

Quinn blinked. Focus. He hoped he hadn’t been broadcasting any of that. He did that sometimes. Playing his thoughts for whoever was listening like some kind of fucking breaking news. Started when he was a kid and, as his mom had always said, _guilty as sin_. He’d tried to break the habit by removing guilt from the equation.

“I’m working. Security.”

“Yeah.” Spencer shrugged. “So am I. That’s why I need a drink.”

So, _obviously_ , Quinn followed Eliot Spencer back to the bar, trying to believe his luck.

Spencer tapped two fingers on the bar, and the bartender busied himself with a bottle of whiskey and a couple of shot glasses.

“They never have beer at these things,” Spencer said, speaking like it was confidential. Like the two of them were the only people in the room. “Swear to god, if I have to drink another glass of champagne, I’m going to riot.”

Quinn accepted the drink, “Not that I mind, but—”

Spencer laughed, predicting the question. “Look, man, I’m in a foreign county, surrounded by pretentious pricks who’ve seen the insides of their own asses more often than a half-decent conversation.” A man close by looked affronted, and Spencer stared him down calmly until he went away. Spencer flipped the shot glass and leaned on the bar again. “Forgive me for being glad to hear a familiar voice.”

The words sounded harsh, but Spencer’s tone didn’t, warm like the whiskey they were drinking. Speaking of, two shot glasses were already upside down in front of him and a third was at his lips.

“Bar’s open all night, you know.”

Eliot threw back the shot and cocked his head to look around at Quinn. He spared Quinn a quick smile, and tapped the bar for another drink.

“These fucking parties give me a headache.” Eliot said in explanation, “Can’t wait for all these freaks to clear out so I can get some peace.”

Quinn didn’t take it personally. He’d heard worse. “Freaks.”

“Y’know. Psychics. Handsy motherfuckers.” Eliot tapped his temple. “Feel like pretty lady in a shitty bar, all the grab-ass goes on at these things.”

“My ma, she—” Quinn stopped. Don’t tell Eliot Spencer about your _ma_. But Spencer waited, patient, for Quinn to continue. Yeah, _this_ is probably what embarrassment felt like.

“It’s rude.” Quinn said, abrupt. “Listening in without permission. I’d catch hell if she found out I’d been eavesdropping.” He snorted. “She always found out, and the woman ain’t even psychic.”

Spencer didn’t scoff at him. He didn’t roll his eyes. Instead, he broke into a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Damn right. Just bad manners.” Spencer chuckled. “See, you and me, our mommas raised us right.”

Quinn couldn’t believe it. Eliot Spencer was just inches away—no guns in sight—and _smiling_ at him. Quinn had to turn away to keep from losing his cool. He signaled the bartender for a drink to give himself a chance to recover. Say something good.

“So, what’s a guy like you doing here?” _Fuck_.

“Guy like me?” Spencer sounded amused. “You mean, because I’m not psychic? Or,” he played up his accent, sounding just like home: “‘cause I ain’t fancy?”

“I meant—” Quinn was sure he was going to die. “You’re— _you know_ , you’re Eliot Spencer, why would you take a security gig?”

“Easy, kiddo.” Spencer laughed. “I know what you meant.”

Quinn swallowed half his drink in one go. He’d never been this uncool in his life. What was _happening_ to him? He was intensely aware of Spencer’s eyes on him. Quinn had changed his mind; he’d rather be getting shot than floundering like this.

“I’ve been doing work for Moreau on the regular.” Spencer shrugged. “After all that, this is practically a night off.”

“You don’t think somebody’s going to try anything?”

“Nah.” Spencer scanned the guests. “Most of them don’t have the guts, and the ones that do aren’t stupid enough to try at an event like this.” Spencer turned back to Quinn. “Moreau isn’t all that forgiving. You ruin his party, he’ll take it personally.”

“What if they—”

“They won’t get to Moreau.” For someone who wasn’t psychic, Spencer was damn good at anticipating what Quinn was going to say. “Between me and Chapman, no one’s getting within half a block of Moreau if they’re even considering spilling something on his suit.”

Quinn didn’t doubt it. Eliot Spencer was a legend, after all.

“What about you?” Spencer’s tone lightened. “Shouldn’t you be embarrassing the _Bratva_ or something?”

“You know about that?” Though that job had been a rather complicated hit, it hadn’t been all that high-profile.

“Of course. I keep an eye out for impressive plays. Good to know who I might come up against someday.”

Spencer grinned. It was contagious; Quinn found himself replicating it.

“Fair enough.”

Spencer lifted his glass. “Here’s to being on the same side.”

_“Fucking hell, Spencer.”_

Quinn tried not to choke on his drink as Chapman practically materialized out of nowhere, looking like someone shat on his bed.

“You’re supposed to be in Moreau’s office.”

“Shit, now?” Spencer just knocked back another shot.

“Yes, _now_.” Chapman gestured at the line of empty glasses. “And you’re not supposed to—”

“Go ahead, Chapman. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.” Spencer snapped, the buzz surrounding him increasing in volume enough that Quinn brushed into the bartender’s head to keep from eavesdropping.

_—open bar doesn’t mean you don’t have to tip—_

“Keller’s already up there, and—”

“I’m coming, alright?”

“I don’t know what Moreau’s going to do if you don’t show, _soon_.” Chapman warned, his mind eerily quiet next to Spencer’s, and was gone again.

“Well, he’s not wrong.” Spencer wasn’t smiling anymore, an unsettled look taking its place. “Tell you what, once this meeting’s through, you want to catch a beer down the road? American pub—at least, they claim it is. Halfway decent, I guess.”

“Sure.” Quinn agreed, the disappointment that had swelled in his chest lessening. “I’d like that.”

Chapman was back. “Spencer. For the love of god. Get a move on.”

“The work never ends, huh?” Eliot clapped Quinn on the back good-naturedly.

_—over before you know it—_

It was unexpected and too much, like touching a hot stove that was _loud,_ and Quinn did his best to keep his face even. To his relief, Spencer didn’t seem to notice, ushered on his way by Chapman, the restless haze of noise following him. And Quinn could breathe without tasting thoughts he hadn’t meant to know.

 

* * *

 

He had no excuse for being late; he’d known about this meeting for a week. Moreau needed Eliot to be there. And even though being Moreau’s intermediary left Eliot unsteady and with a headache like no hangover he’d ever had, he’d be there for Moreau, no question.

But the worst was that the meeting was with John Douglas Keller. That was why he’d been drinking in the first place. Eliot hated Keller. _Hated_. Just seeing him sitting, calm, in Moreau’s office pissed him off. But he was friends with Moreau, so Eliot tolerated him.

Moreau was visibly angry, and Eliot crossed the room to accept the scolding he expected and truthfully deserved.

“Where have you been?” Moreau demanded, catching Eliot’s chin to force eye contact. “You’re late _and_ you’re drunk?”

Guilt hit Eliot in the pit of his stomach. He’d snapped at Chapman, but that bastard was right; he wasn’t supposed to drink before Moreau’s meetings.

“I wanted to take the edge—”

“No self-control.” Moreau snapped. “Are you trying to embarrass me?”

Moreau released him, and Eliot dropped his gaze, unable to look him in the eye.

“No. Of course not.”

“When I ask you to do something, Spencer, I expect you to do it.”

“I’m sorry.” Eliot really was, remorse welling up in his throat and threatening to choke him. Protecting Moreau was his job. Didn’t matter whether it was his body or his reputation, Eliot was supposed to keep him safe.

“You’re only sorry because I’m angry.”

“Damien—”

“This won’t happen again, Spencer.”

“No.” Eliot wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

“Apologize to Mr. Keller for wasting his time.”

Eliot turned to Moreau’s business partner. “I—“

“Don’t be stupid.” Moreau said, and Keller chuckled.

“Oh.” Eliot realized. Moreau couldn’t forgive him yet. Words didn’t mean anything; they were empty, you could say anything and mean nothing. Actions were real.

Eliot sank to his knees in front of where Keller sat, expectant. Eliot looked up to see if this was right, but Moreau’s face was still dark. Keller’s hand slipped around the back of his neck, his touch sending shivers of disgust down Eliot’s spine. The grip was practiced, as Keller immediately pushed his way into Eliot’s head and Eliot recoiled from the force.

“Stop it.” Moreau’s voice cut through the confusion. “Don’t make this difficult.”

Focusing on Moreau, Eliot breathed out slowly, making an effort to relax. And then Keller was in control, and Eliot was drowning in him. Keller was everything at once, furious and demanding and it didn’t matter because Eliot was content.

But Eliot couldn’t feel Damien, and it wasn’t right. He opened his eyes, seeking out Moreau’s gaze. It was hard and unforgiving, and Eliot’s heart sank. Desperate, Eliot tried to invite Damien in, opening his mind and offering it up. At the same time, Keller’s fingers clenched tight in Eliot’s hair.

Eliot shuddered, Keller’s pleasure sparking painfully against Eliot’s desolation. He wasn’t supposed to, but Eliot moved to pull away, break the connection. It was too much, and Keller was pushing harder, and Eliot thought he was going to split into pieces.

Instead, Keller grasped at him with both hands, holding him in his place. And Eliot was lost in a whirlwind of bliss that scorched through his veins.

”I said, that’s e _nough_.”

Keller was gone, and Damien was there, cool and reassuring. Eliot wasn’t sure if he’d pulled Keller out or just extricated Eliot from Keller’s hands, but Damien had a hand on his cheek and the agony was gone. Eliot was beyond speech, but he knew Damien could feel his relief and gratitude.

Damien spared Eliot a smile, just for him, before he ushered a flustered Keller to the door.

“Sorry about that, Damien.” Keller was saying. “You know how he is.”

“That I do.”

They shook hands and Eliot was still on his knees, leaning into the chair and trying to remember how his legs worked. It would come back to him, it always did.


	2. Chapter 2

The guests had dwindled, some heading to their rooms for the night, others seeking out further morally questionable entertainment. Quinn waited in the lobby, lounging in a faux-leather chair that squeaked when he moved, skimming from whoever still lingered. Technically, he was still on the clock. More to the point, he was bored, and about 80% sure he was being stood up. If he’d just let himself dip into Spencer’s head, just a little, maybe he’d have avoided this letdown.

So he entertained himself with the flutter of inebriated thoughts nearby and the slow, steady countdown to the end of the desk clerk’s shift. And tried not to think about the easy way Eliot Spencer laughed. Or his mouth on the lip of his glass. Across the lobby, the clerk looked suddenly confused and uncomfortable. _Shit_.

Quinn quashed the thoughts hurriedly and did his best to look composed and _innocent_. That second one was practically impossible. His ma would’ve hit him with whatever she had handy if she’d heard him, swearing up and down she should leave him on the church’s doorstep. A child cursed by the devil raised by God might have a chance. He'd never believed her; he could hear what she was thinking, after all.

“Hey, man, sorry I’m late.”

Spencer looked even better than before. He’d changed into comfortable-looking clothes and his cheeks were flushed, like he’d been working out or—Quinn made himself stop thinking before he broadcast _that_ one.

“Got held up in one of Damien’s damn meetings.” Spencer winced, charmingly apologetic.

“No problem.” Quinn didn’t mind anymore. “Ready for that beer?”

“Hell yeah.”

The pub was small and ugly and bordering on caricature, but people were dressed down, nobody was thinking about mergers or stocks or whatever, and there was beer on tap. Spencer settled into one of the stools against the bar, ordering the drinks in alarmingly fluent Italian. Quinn raised his eyebrows and Spencer laughed.

“You know how it is, in our line of work. You pick up things.”

Quinn grinned back at him. Typically their shared skills would have put him on edge. Maybe it was the familiar accent, but Quinn felt at ease with this man he’d just met. Or maybe it was Spencer’s genuine smile and the way his arms looked, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Quinn was getting distracted again.

“How do you stand it,” Quinn asked, looking Spencer determinedly in the eye, “working these prissy shindigs more than once?”

Spencer shrugged. “Moreau likes his parties more than he likes playing it safe. I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“It’s not like he didn’t hire other security.” Quinn gestured toward himself.

“Yeah.” Spencer laughed, “I ain’t leaving his security to a bunch of hired guns.”

The sound of his laugh was warm and rich; Quinn wasn’t even offended. The bartender set a pair of drinks in front of them, and Spencer’s quiet _grazie_ in response was sincere. Quinn found himself absorbing every detail. If memories were all you could hold on to, he wanted to save this one.

Spencer slid one drink across the bar to Quinn. “So what made you take the job, if you’re so put out by the mundanity of it all?”

“I needed the money.”

“Ain’t that the way it always is.” Eliot commiserated, taking a long drink from his own glass. “Bet I could get you something more interesting. If you wanted.”

“Oh, yeah?” Quinn wanted.

At worst, he could get a couple bloodthirsty debt collectors off his back. Better, he’d get to actually _work_ for once. And on top of that, he’d get to do a job with Eliot Spencer. This was like Babe Ruth offering you a spot on the Yankees. You don’t turn that down.

“Moreau’s got me heading out for a quick one in the next week. And I’d be glad to have someone along for the ride who isn’t _Chapman_.” Spencer grimaced.

“Don’t blame you,” Quinn agreed, “What is that guy’s problem?”

“Besides the stick up his ass?” Spencer chuckled. A moment later, he raised his eyebrows and tipped his beer toward the door. “Guess you can ask him.”

Speak of the fucking devil, Chapman was stalking toward them, looking _livid_. Well, this had been fun while it lasted. Quinn braced himself, ready for a fight. Honestly, punching in this guy’s face would feel pretty good. He looked breakable; maybe Quinn could beat the prissy accent out of him.

But Chapman didn’t even look at him, striding straight up to Spencer and getting in his face. Spencer didn’t flinch, setting down his drink and raising his eyebrows.

Chapman snarled. “What the hell are you _doing_?”

“What are you talking about?” Spencer glowered. The buzzing that Quinn hadn’t realized had abated was back. “I’m having a beer.”

“I can see that.” Chapman spoke slow and deliberate, like he didn’t think Spencer could keep up. “And how do you think Moreau feels about it?”

“We already did the meeting. I can do what I want.”

“You’re not off the clock just because you let some of Moreau’s friends cop a feel.”

Eliot stiffened, expression dark, and Quinn anticipated the blow that would certainly come. So did Chapman. Before Eliot could make a fist, he was slumped against the bar, groaning like someone was twisting a knife in his gut. Quinn was blasted by a ricochet, resounding in his head the same way it felt if he forgot to pull back before he broke someone’s fingers. He nearly doubled over, himself.

“Don’t even think about it.” Chapman said, coolly, bending in close. “You think I care that you’re Moreau’s favorite pet?”

Spencer’s eyes were glassy, and his hands gripped the edge of the bar. He took careful, measured breaths, and Chapman patted him on the cheek.

“Remember your place, Spencer.”

Chapman must have let him go then, because Spencer pushed himself away from the bar and out of Chapman’s reach. There was a wild fury in his eyes, shaking with the tension of his clenched hands. But he didn’t make a move.

“Go on, then.” Chapman pointed to the door. “Moreau’s waiting for you.”

The searing anger melted away, and Quinn couldn’t identify what had replaced it. In any case, Spencer just seemed empty when he excused himself and disappeared from the pub. Quinn watched him go, confused and disappointed. Chapman finally acknowledged Quinn’s presence.

“I’m going to give you one warning, and I’ll make it very simple so you can understand.”

Quinn had a headache, and the night hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped. He didn’t have the patience for Chapman’s condescension. “I ain’t interested in anything you’ve got to say, English.”

“Tough.” Chapman said, unimpressed. ( _God_ , Quinn hated him) “Because I’m the one who’ll have to clean up the mess when Moreau annihilates you.”

“The fuck is your problem?” Quinn was sick of this guy. The impulse to beat the absolute shit out of him was almost uncontrollable. Almost. The taste he’d gotten of Spencer’s pain was enough to dissuade Quinn from asking for more.

“Currently? My life is plagued by insufferable cowboys. _Perpetually_ , Spencer’s fucking _thing_ for letting just about anybody—” Chapman looked Quinn over with distaste. “—take him for a ride.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Though, parts of Quinn had an idea. If Chapman had interrupted Quinn’s chance of getting lucky with Eliot Spencer, Quinn would reevaluate the decision to not break each one of his fingers.

 “Sure you don’t.” Chapman smirked, “Just having a nice evening out, stealing from Moreau.”

“Stealing?” While Quinn wasn’t above swiping from an employer, he’d kept his hands to himself this time. “You’re the one who hired me. Security, remember? Same as Spencer.”

“Spencer isn’t Moreau’s _security_ , you stupid ape. He’s his fucking whore.”

That… was ridiculous. Eliot Spencer had demolished an entire regiment of soldiers sent to take him out. On his day off. Nobody could own a man like that.

“Oh, sure, he’s very good at killing and general destruction. That’s a bonus, I suppose.”

To _what_?

“Moreau is a businessman. His more profitable partners get to enjoy select perks.” Chapman sneered. “Spencer’s very good at everything he does.”

Quinn didn’t doubt _that_ ; he’d been imagining the things Eliot Spencer was good at all day.

“Have some self-respect.” Chapman made a face.

Quinn glowered at him. “You’re full of shit.”

“Oh, am I? Don’t tell me you didn’t take a peek into Spencer’s pretty head yourself? See _exactly_ the kind of man he is?”

It’s rude. _Just bad manners._

“That’s adorable.” Chapman laughed. “Really. You are so incredibly out of your depth. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go back to the barnyard you came from.”

Before Quinn could move, Chapman was inside his head, _twisting_. It was getting shot and bones breaking and everything that had ever hurt him, all at once.

Chapman caught Quinn before he dropped to the floor, navigating him to the nearest chair. Blinded by the assault, all Quinn could manage was a tight moan, his fingers catching at Chapman’s jacket. Chapman knocked his hands away and shushed him.

“Shh; that’s it, easy.” Chapman crooned in his ear. “I’ll just show you.”

Chapman thrust an image, razor-sharp, into Quinn’s mind and Spencer was on his knees—it wasn’t how Quinn had imagined—different days and different people with their hands in his hair or on his face. But mostly there was one man, just the one, and Spencer was gentle, and not just for a man who could break your neck without really trying.

Chapman withdrew and the world rushed back in. Quinn could breathe again.

“I’ll tell you one more time, kid. Keep your hands and your dirty little mind away from Moreau’s property.”

Chapman sauntered to the door, leaving Quinn reeling and nauseous. He took a slow breath, trying to slow his heart. Quinn had been force-fed by psychics before, but that had been worse than usual. The bar seemed louder and more crowded, the other patrons’ thoughts making it difficult to focus. He was shit with his fucking bottom-barrel telepathy under the best circumstances, and this really hadn’t helped. Quinn kneaded his fingers into his temple and wondered if—after everything he’d ever done—he was going to be killed over buying a guy a beer.

After that, it didn’t take much consideration. Quinn was leaving town as quickly as possible. He’d gotten paid and he clearly wasn’t welcome. Which wasn’t a new feeling, Quinn often overstayed his welcome. This was even one of his calmer exits: he was going to be able to pack his bag this time.

Overall, the night couldn’t have gone much worse and, in retrospect, a gunfight would have been preferable. Especially if Chapman was caught in the crossfire, the goddamn pompous bastard.

Quinn made the decision to cheer himself up once he was out of dodge. A bar fight wasn’t going to cut it. He’d come up with something. Quinn smiled to himself and threw his bag over his shoulder.

He made it two steps toward the exit before the door unlocked. Quinn dropped the bag at the sound, pressing himself against the wall. _Shit._ They really were coming to kill him over a fucking beer. He hadn’t even gotten to drink the goddamn thing.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Mr. Quinn.”

It occurred to Quinn that shooting someone might make him feel better.

So he slipped the safety off his gun, and raised it as the first man—one of Moreau’s, Quinn was getting sick of all these fucking psychics—rounded the corner. “Stupid like this?”

The man looked annoyed. Annoyed was underwhelming. Squeezing the trigger would solve that. Quinn spent a second considering the inconvenience of washing blood out of his shirt. Ah, he’d get a new one.

A second, nearly identical man— _did they hire these guys out of a lineup?_ —spoke next.

“Moreau wants to see you.”

Huh. Quinn lowered the gun.

Quinn avoided psychic affairs as much as he could, most of the time. The first reason being: psychics were self-righteous dicks, and it had been made clear Quinn was unwelcome in the club. Second, psychic bullshit attracted the Bureau, and Quinn would rather put a gun in his mouth than go through that again. In any case, he was a little fuzzy when it came to noteworthy psychics.

But _everyone_ knew about Damien Moreau. It didn’t matter what rock you were living under. Moreau was the most powerful empath on this side of the planet. Not to mention his influence over black market trade, or the fact that he had most major politicians in his pocket. When Moreau wanted something, he got it.

Moreau wanted to see Quinn, so Quinn was ushered into the elevator, silent except for the chiming as they each floor. Anticipation made him itch. So did silence.

Quinn reassured himself of comforting facts. He was a head taller than both of these guys. He had a gun tucked into his waistband. He was in control. And no one had touched him.

(The Bureau hadn’t been so generous. Of course, Quinn had run when they came for him. And fought. That probably hadn’t helped. And there was the whole thing about the baseball game.)

That was irrelevant. He was in control. These guys weren’t Bureau. Quinn was in Italy and he wasn’t worth enough to merit that kind of effort.

The elevator reached Moreau’s suite, doors sliding open to reveal a predictably extravagant anteroom. Quinn could only imagine how pretentious the inside of the actual suite was going to look. However, when the guards escorted him inside, he didn’t really notice.

Quinn’s brain short-circuited upon entry. Eliot Spencer, seated in front of Damien Moreau, had shed a layer of clothing and his shoes.

(At least, Quinn presumed the man was Moreau; they didn’t exactly travel in the same circles. Judging by the rich-guy pajamas that were probably worth more money than Quinn had pulled in over the past two years, he was definitely Moreau)

Spencer’s head was tipped back, throat exposed, as Moreau’s fingertips traced across his skin. The ever-present sound of Spencer’s thoughts was muffled, the tone softened. As Quinn and the guards stepped inside, Moreau turned to them, and Spencer opened his eyes. There was a sharp burst of static as Spencer met Quinn’s gaze, and he moved to stand.

Moreau gripped the back of his neck. “Sit _down_ , Spencer.”

Eliot sank back into the seat, breathing careful like he was in pain. His eyes drifted back to Moreau. The buzzing was calm again and he didn’t do anything; he didn’t even push Moreau’s hand away, even when it relaxed on his shoulder.

And—Quinn made himself look away from Spencer’s shoulders in that shirt. You were meant to pay attention to the most powerful man in the room: powerful men had short tempers and easily bruised egos. But powerful men were just as easily felled by a well-placed 9mm as anyone. The fact that he appeared to have himself twisted deep into Eliot Spencer, a man not easily felled by anything? That was… well, it was _something_.

So Quinn looked to Damien Moreau. As much as he could, anyway. Spencer’s arms were fantastic.

Moreau gestured to the guards, and they vanished the way they’d come.

 “Mr. Quinn.” Moreau seemed pleased, even eager to meet him.

Quinn didn’t know what to do with that. Ten minutes ago, he’d been sure Moreau was going to have him killed for… well, Quinn wasn’t clear on that. But people didn’t need a reason for killing, not really. Quinn never did.

“Spencer’s been telling me about you.”

“Oh.” Quinn said, eloquently. He did his best not to look back down at Spencer, because Spencer had that same look of flushed exertion Quinn had seen earlier, in the hotel lobby. “Really?”

“Yes.” Moreau smiled, at ease. Moreau’s fingers trailed lightly across Spencer’s collarbone. Quinn needed to fucking concentrate, but Spencer squirmed like Moreau’s touch was electric.

“He’s told me you’re looking for work.”

“Uh—” Quinn made himself look at Moreau, not the goddamn pornographic look on Spencer’s face. “Yeah. Yes?”

“Usually I don’t let offenses like yours slide. And I like to hire people I already know.”

Quinn had no idea what he was talking about. But he nodded.

“But Spencer’s taken a liking to you. Isn’t that right, my friend?” Moreau lifted his hand to cup Spencer’s face, who shuddered and—goddamn it— _moaned._

Quinn was going to lose it. Moreau was still talking, like Spencer wasn’t making these excruciating pleased sounds. Like he wasn’t the one doing it, his mind pushed deep into Spencer’s and his hands _touching—_ Quinn was going to _fucking_ lose it.

“So what do you say?”

Quinn’s attention snapped back to Moreau. “Uh—”

Moreau didn’t seem bothered by Quinn’s lapse in attention. In fact, he smiled.

“I’m offering you a job, Mr. Quinn. What do you say?”

Quinn knew better than to refuse a man like Damien Moreau. He also knew better than to turn down the kind of money he’d be paying, either. And most convincingly, he couldn’t say no to a job alongside Eliot Spencer, regardless of who had staked their claim on, in, and around him.

“Yeah, sure. I’m in.”

Spencer shivered, just a little, as Moreau pulled his hand away.

“Great.” Moreau beamed at Quinn. In the same breath, he snapped at Spencer: “Get dressed.”

Quinn couldn’t look away as Spencer stood, dazed contentment on his face, and retreated into the next room. Moreau continued, like he hadn’t taught a predator to sit and beg.

“Chapman will meet you out front, he knows the details.”

Chapman as chaperone? Of course there was a fucking catch. Maybe Quinn could poison him and finally be rid of the prick. Moreau looked amused, clearly catching a taste of Quinn’s dislike.

“Chapman takes care of Spencer for me.” Moreau turned as Spencer re-entered (tragically, Quinn observed, clothed). “Isn’t that right?”

Spencer huffed his annoyance, grabbing his coat from the back of the couch.

But he finally spoke: “Yeah.”

Moreau caught his arm, and Spencer stopped. “Remember everything I told you?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies if this is unreadable. Tonight my editing abilities have been impaired by wine.


	3. Chapter 3

Quinn punched the button for the lobby. Spencer had followed him into the elevator: Quinn’s head was thrumming with the sound of him. It was different. Changed, like Moreau had poured himself inside, filling Spencer’s head until he was mostly Moreau. More of a gentle hum than a restless buzz. Yet, even doped up on whatever Moreau had given him, he was just as pervasive and relentless and tempting.

Quinn didn’t much care for the _being kept-_ thing that the two of them had. Eliot Spencer was power personified: he could take Quinn apart with his bare hands. He could do it without breaking a sweat, though Quinn wouldn’t mind if he did.

Maybe that was what Moreau liked. Tying up all that power and holding it down. The danger was still there, just under the surface, like lightning rolling through clouds.

The whole fucking thing was so goddamn hot.

The elevator doors slid shut. Quinn wasn’t thinking anymore.

Quinn pushed Spencer up against the door, breathed in the smell and sound of him, and kissed him.

People had a kind of membrane between their thoughts and the outside world; sometimes that membrane was very thin, other times impenetrable. So when Quinn got close and his mind brushed up against Eliot Spencer’s, he expected some resistance.

Instead, the world dropped from underneath him, like he’d stepped off a cliff, and he was immersed. Surface thoughts—as commonplace to Quinn as the sounds of traffic—were far away, barely audible. He was enveloped, deep inside the secret places people kept locked away. And _shit,_ the violence Quinn found there: so potent he could smell the blood. He was going to drown here, and maybe that wasn’t so bad.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?”

Those words were spoken aloud, though they echoed inside, too. Quinn couldn’t surface; he couldn’t discern where he ended and Spencer began.

Somebody hit him, hard, drawing him back. There was a hand gripped tight around his throat and he was pinned against the wall. Spencer’s face was inches from his. Livid. Still really fucking hot.

“Get out of my head before I tear your arm off and—”

“Workin’ on it.” Quinn said, honestly.

Listening in usually took more effort, and Quinn had never really got the hang of doing it on purpose, but he was caught in an undertow. Spencer’s hand tightened at Quinn’s throat, sending a shiver, _electric,_ up his spine. And he was free of it, Spencer’s mind just a buzz like before.

Spencer didn’t let go. Quinn was tempted to kiss him again, to trace his mouth up Spencer’s neck. The taste of blood only made him more eager. Spencer’s look of fury flickered, confusion just behind it. Wasn’t hard to guess he’d switched to public radio, Quinn’s thoughts bleeding into Spencer’s. He didn’t much care, it was mostly desire and want. If Spencer hadn’t figured _that_ out by now, well.

“Thought you liked this sort of shit.”

“I don’t.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

_(Spencer, squirming)_

“That’s… different.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Like the click of a lock: Quinn understood. Spencer was working it off. Some kind of debt. That explained it. The way he’d stopped still when Moreau touched him, never leaning in or reciprocating. Not like lovers. But what amount of money left a man like _that_ pliable and tamed? Kind of a waste, really. Taking that kind of wild power and teaching it to roll over.

Not that Quinn could judge. He’d been there. You do what you have to.

(And once he’d made his deal, the guards didn’t forget to feed him. When he accepted Kirkwood’s deal, he was protected from being sent back Inside.)

Spencer was still very close, pressed strong and warm against Quinn.

“Just so you know,” Quinn said, confidentially, “ _I’m_ liking this sort of shit.”

Spencer grimaced, pushing him away. “…I can tell.”

Spencer looked shaken. Quinn was good at kissing—it wasn’t arrogance if it was _true—_ so it was a reaction to the eavesdropping. Quinn hadn’t meant to do it. Not like _that_. Still, Quinn’s stomach felt wrong even though he’d liked kissing Spencer. Quinn stepped back, gave him space, though everything inside of him burned to linger close. He settled for watching from the opposite side of the elevator.

If it had _really_ upset him, if Spencer had _wanted_ to, he could have killed Quinn in an instant. But Quinn wasn’t dead. He wondered why.

 

 

When jumped, Eliot expected a particular kind of assault. Knives, guns, fists: all of these were more likely than Quinn’s weapon of choice. Eliot certainly had _not_ expected sudden and unprompted kissing. He may have been amused had Quinn not accompanied it with a sudden, uninvited push into Eliot’s head.

Just like every time, it was heavy and wrong and tight: the space in his head was only meant to fit one. The only way to relieve the pressure was to curl up small inside his own head so someone else could take residence. He’d never get used to it, not even if he’d had warning.

Yet, this was different than other times. For once, the sharing actually meant _sharing._ There was give as much as there was take, and Eliot was as deep in Quinn as Quinn was in him. The tightness wasn’t so overwhelming when Quinn’s mind was so open. The inside of Quinn was loud and intense and all at once. Eliot understood several things: Quinn was very _very_ attracted to Eliot. He’d been thinking about a number of acts that were enough to make even Eliot blush. And the invasion of Eliot’s mind was inadvertent, possibly a byproduct of Quinn’s enthusiasm, triggered by the kiss.

Right. Kissing.

Eliot could have snapped Quinn’s neck easier than breathing. It’s not like Quinn hadn’t provoked it. But instead, Eliot slammed Quinn solidly against the wall and hit him just hard enough to drive him back to himself. Maybe a little more.

And then there they were. It would be easier to put Quinn out of his misery now. Merciful, even. But Quinn was still standing there, leaning against the handrail, grinning like an idiot. The idiot he clearly was. How could Quinn not realize, with the kind of man Moreau was? The kind of man _Eliot_ was.

Eliot had tried to ease Moreau’s jealousy—having a drink with someone who felt like home, it wasn’t mutiny. But Moreau had been insistent on reminding Eliot their relationship.

The fact that Moreau had changed his mind and sent Eliot away with Quinn, calm as anything? It wasn’t a sign of trust. Moreau was _pissed_. Now Quinn was Eliot’s responsibility, and Moreau was looking for anything to condemn the both of them. This was more than enough.

Eliot had been given specific instructions, but Eliot might be able to salvage this. He needed to warn Quinn. God knows why, but he did. Before Quinn dug himself his own grave.

“Stay out of my head.”

“What?” Quinn looked wounded. “C’mon, man, I said I was sorry.” He hadn’t.

“This isn’t a request.” Eliot tried to explain. “I work for Moreau.”

“Okay, okay.” Quinn said, shrugging. “I thought you were off-duty.”

“That’s not—” Eliot shook his head. Quinn wasn’t getting it. “That’s not how this works.”

Quinn sort of half-smiled, possibly more of a grimace. Eliot needed to make it clear. Before they got to Chapman. Chapman would love nothing more than to run straight to Moreau with Eliot’s indiscretion.

“Look, this?” Eliot gestured to his head. “It’s for Moreau. Not you.”

“Alright, you’re exclusive, I get it.”

“I don’t think you do. You make a move that Moreau doesn’t like? He will kill you. More accurately, he’ll have me do it.”

A weird sort of excitement flickered in Quinn’s eyes. “Promise?”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m serious.”

“I’ll be good.” Quinn crossed his heart.

It was such a playground gesture; Eliot gave an incredulous sort of laugh. Quinn grinned back, face lighting up like Eliot had given him some kind of gift.

“And watch out for Chapman.”

“I figured he was a narc. How far up Moreau’s ass _is_ that guy?”

 

* * *

 

“I swear to god, Spencer. If you ask him one more question about backwater country bullshit, I will end you right here.”

“Calm down, I’m just trying to pass the time.” Eliot said, not bothering to fake innocence. Chapman knew better. “And don’t kid yourself. Moreau would make you eat your tongue.”

“Fine. I’ll kill this goddamn inbred piece of hillbilly trash instead.”

“Is he talking about me?” Quinn interjected lazily from the backseat. “Rude.”

Chapman cringed, like the dirty drawl of Quinn’s voice personally injured him. “Shut him up, Spencer. If I hear one more word, you’ll be cleaning his brain out of the interior of this car.”

“He can’t do that, can he?” Quinn hissed, conspiratorially, “With a gun or something, sure, but not just with his—”

“Shut up!” Chapman snapped.

“Geez, grumpy.” Quinn leaned back into his seat. “You must be fun at part—oh wait, no, you’re the worst.”

“If I gave you a stroke, would _that_ make you stop talking?”

For all his threats, Chapman would not kill Quinn. That was up to Eliot. Moreau had made that much clear. And if any of them were going to break the rules, Eliot’s bet was on the hyperactive kid with no sense of propriety. Establishing the boundaries, even with the consequence of a _death sentence,_ hadn’t seemed to impress much upon him. Certainly not tact.

Despite that, Quinn hadn’t touched Eliot again, and he hadn’t dived back into Eliot’s head in the same way. But he was a fucking beacon of psychic bullshit. Granted, much of it was entertaining: images and thoughts accentuating whatever Quinn was talking about, various childish and inventive insults aimed at Chapman, all of it sprinkled with embarrassingly detailed assessments of Eliot’s own appearance.

All of it was inescapable, loud in a way that defied description, because none of it was audible. This, even more than Quinn’s incessant talk of small-town affairs, was the source of Chapman’s irritation. So, Eliot found himself not minding all that much. The drive had probably been the most fun Eliot had had in months. Riling up Chapman was always fun, and Quinn’s sheer existence was enough to get under his skin. Eliot was glad he hadn’t killed him in the elevator. He’d never have gotten to see Chapman turn such an entertaining purplish color.

“Quinn, man, you ever been to a tractor pull?”

Quinn’s eyes lit up and Chapman groaned.

 

They arrived at the safe house in one piece, a middle-sized building overlooking the location of tomorrow’s rendezvous. Eliot’s head had started to hurt by the end of the drive, familiar ache brought on by too much psychic intrusion. But Chapman had decided to give them the silent treatment, which was more than worth it. Chapman parked the car in a back alley and stalked inside, like a kid throwing a tantrum.

Quinn followed Eliot, bright and alert, like he hadn’t spent all day on duty and half the night in a car. Eliot smashed down the flicker of pride at that. Eliot shouldn’t get too attached, especially since Moreau had already condemned the kid. Didn’t matter what caliber of hitter he was., Plus, Quinn was an ass.

Quinn grinned at him, like he knew something he shouldn’t, and Eliot glared back. A _psychic_ ass.

“Cut it out.” Eliot hauled his bag from the car and slammed the trunk shut.

“Can’t help it, man,” Quinn gestured at his head, “I never learned how to shut it off, not really.”

“Well, figure it out.”

Eliot followed Chapman into the building, swinging the bag onto his shoulder. Quinn’s footsteps were behind him, along with a pleased thought about Eliot’s ass.

 _“Damn_ it, Quinn.”

Quinn just laughed. And Eliot decided—if it came to it, god help him—he’d kill the kid quick and painless.

The sixth floor of the building was a gutted office, a couple of desks, cabinets, and swivel chairs still remaining shoved up against one wall. Chapman dropped into the nearest chair, putting his feet up on a desk. Body language with the clear implication that he was not going to be helping.

Eliot got to work setting up surveillance. It was low-tech: binoculars and a rifle with a night-vision scope. Eliot didn’t plan on shooting anybody on this one, but you couldn’t be too careful. Quinn watched him with interest. He hadn’t asked for details about the job. Pushing for information was generally a bad move; a hitter should limit their knowledge to as much as their employer wants them to know. But the suspense was clearly getting to him, an itch he couldn’t scratch. Eliot found it all very amusing.

“What’s the play?” Quinn asked, finally. It was an obvious plea for information, but general enough that Eliot could answer however he liked.

“It should be pretty straightforward. Bit of surveillance and a retrieval, no mess unless they put up a fuss.” That’s how Eliot liked it. Violence was a last resort. Especially as this meeting would determine negotiations in the future.

“Will they?” Quinn asked, overeager, ready for a fight. He was young. He’d learn.

Eliot smothered a smile. “I’m not expecting anything. In my experience, bureaucrats don’t put up much of a fight.” Eliot shrugged. “Moreau doesn’t trust them, though. So… it’s possible. Stay sharp.”

This rubbed Chapman the wrong way. “Yeah, wonder why he doesn’t trust a herd of execs rounding up all the psychic talent they can get their hands on.”

“Excuse me?” Quinn was looking at Chapman, eyes wide. He’d completely tensed, filled with kind of tightness that meant he was the verge of running or fighting.

Chapman latched onto this immediately, a smile spreading across his face. “Surely you’ve heard of it. The Bureau of Psychic Affairs? Seems they’re branching out.”

A specific agency corralling psychics and keeping their bullshit under control? Eliot wasn’t exactly against the concept. But he could certainly understand Moreau’s point of view. And as such, they would be approaching the Bureau officials with caution.

“Is there a problem?” Chapman asked, delighted. He wasn’t speaking to Eliot.

Quinn was quiet, scratching at his skin like there was an itch in his bones. Rocking on his heels, just the tiniest bit. It was disconcerting, all that noise compressed into silence like a star collapsing.

“The Bureau.” Quinn said, hushed, like someone else could be listening. “Here?”

“Yes, here. Do try to keep up, trailer park.” Chapman said.

“Quinn?” Eliot stood, gripping Quinn’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Eliot’s mind was full of broken glass and blood running down the drain, jarring and dissonant.

_—already here stop for a second and it catches up too late to run—_

Quinn pulled away, cutting the transmission. He took another step back, and a strange smile twisted onto his face. “Yep. I’m great.”

Chapman was looking at Quinn like he was going to swallow him whole. Eliot knew that look. Chapman loved misery; he wouldn’t let go until he’d explored its depths. Eliot shouldn’t care. It’d be easier if he didn’t. But maybe it was the taste of home or a common enemy or, shit, who knows? Eliot needed to step in before Chapman tore the kid apart.

“Come here.”

Quinn looked at him, smile still frozen in place, and honestly the dread in his eyes left Eliot unsettled. He really looked like a kid now, pale and shaky.

“Settle down. I just want to know if you’re any good.” Eliot squared up and raised his eyebrows.

A flicker of annoyance. “I’m good.” His voice sounded more solid.

“Let’s see, then.”

 

Quinn, truthfully, _was_ good. Not as good as Eliot, of course. But fast and strong. Clearly the kind of fighting he’d picked up—schoolyard scraps, bar fights, god only knew what else—likely a lot of trial and error. He could use some discipline. Eliot decided he’d give the kid a few lessons.

“C’mon, man.” Eliot had knocked him to the floor again. “Keep your left up.”

Quinn bounced back up, “Fuck you.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Quinn chuckled, unembarrassed, blood running down his chin. His left dipped again, so Eliot punched him squarely in the jaw.

“What’d I tell you?”

“Dammit, Spencer.”

Quinn could take a punch, that’s for sure. He was still grinning, like it was nothing. Quinn swung at Eliot, no technique, just brute force. Sidestepping, Eliot used his momentum to flip Quinn onto his back. Eliot stood over him.

“ _Think_ , man. Make your moves _count_.”

Quinn glowered up at him. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

“If I’m not honest with you, you can’t improve.”

In response, Quinn drove the heel of his shoe into Eliot’s shin, then swept Eliot’s feet out from under him. It was a good move, and brought Eliot crashing down beside him.

Quinn took his chance, driving a knee—and his full weight—into Eliot’s stomach. Winded, Eliot barely deflected a follow-up to his throat, but caught Quinn’s arm. It was simple to twist until Quinn rolled off and Eliot was back on top.

Eliot pinned him facedown, and caught his breath. Quinn would just have to wait until Eliot let go, or his arm would snap. Quinn unleashed an impressive vocabulary of curses into the floor. Eliot put more pressure on his arm until Quinn shut up.

“You’re supposed to tap out when you’ve had enough.” Eliot suggested.

“Let him up, Spencer.” Chapman had enough of it. “Quit playing around and get back to work.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. Any kind of effort that meant getting sweaty was _beneath_ Chapman. But he’d given Quinn enough of a lesson for one night. So Eliot let him go, resuming his post with the binoculars.

“Still quiet. Go figure.”

For hours, Eliot watched people come and go. No one seemed to be setting up an ambush or a double-cross. The most suspicious activity he witnessed was an illegally-parked sedan and a jaywalker. Chapman was dozing, feet still up on the desk. Quinn was propped up an arm’s length away from Eliot. He’d gotten bored of the stakeout and drifted off a few hours ago. He really was shit at keeping his thoughts to himself. Apparently when he dreamed, he left the air tinged with faint memories, like cast-off light from a television.

Eliot tuned it all out, watching the early-morning traffic and waiting. It had been less than eight hours, but Eliot was itching to get the job done and go home. Eliot didn’t like to leave Moreau for long, regardless of Moreau being irritated with him. It was like the world lost its appeal when he was alone. Eliot supposed that made sense: what was the point of anything if it wasn’t a shared experience? And Moreau would forgive him for his indiscretion, eventually. He always did.


End file.
